


Recognition

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Cell Phones, Established Relationship, Fluff, Invasion of Privacy, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Photographs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-18
Updated: 2015-03-18
Packaged: 2018-03-17 10:16:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3525437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The problem is that Gokudera’s caught Yamamoto sneaking pictures of him, three that he knows about and probably more than he doesn’t, and the curiosity is so bad under his skin that it’s like a burn, an itch he can’t get rid of until he knows." Yamamoto has been taking pictures of Gokudera and Gokudera needs to know why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recognition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RubyFiamma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RubyFiamma/gifts).



Gokudera’s not trying to pry into Yamamoto’s privacy. If there’s anyone who knows the value of boundaries in a relationship, it’s Gokudera Hayato, and he’s not interested in invading Yamamoto’s even if he’s sure the other wouldn’t care. The problem is that he’s caught Yamamoto sneaking pictures of him, three that Gokudera knows about and probably more than he  _doesn’t_  know about, and the curiosity is so bad under Gokudera’s skin that it’s like a burn, an itch he can’t get rid of until he  _knows_. So when Yamamoto leaves his phone on the floor when he goes to baseball practice and Gokudera is left alone in the room to amuse himself, there’s no question how he’s going to do that.

The phone isn’t password-protected; there’s just a lock bar to swipe and he’s free to navigate through the application menu. He goes straight for the photo album, far more interested in the pictures Yamamoto has been taking than he is in the text records and call history that he knows are nearly all his name. It’s easy to find, the icon recognizable even on the unfamiliar model of the phone, and he opens it up without hesitation, double-tapping to get access.

And the screen goes black, a box popping up to demand a password and a helpful keyboard appearing for him.

Gokudera growls. “Fuck.” He lifts his hand, ready to give up and live with the ache of unsatisfied curiosity under his skin -- then he pauses, a possibility presenting itself organically because how secure is Yamamoto’s password likely to  _be_ , really?

He tries “baseball” first. It’s more a joke than anything else, amusement for no one but himself, and he’s not really surprised when it doesn’t work. “Rain” seems too easy, “shigure soen” too complicated, but he tries both, just in case. “Takesushi” is only once he’s getting desperate, “Vongola” unlikely but worth an attempt. Gokudera runs through everything he can think of, easy passwords and combinations of the more likely suspects, until the challenge of figuring it out is more responsible for his sustained interest than the actual need to see the pictures themselves.

He’s thinking about that, the back of his head idly turning over the possible reasons for Yamamoto to take pictures in the first place when it’s not like he can’t just see Gokudera anytime he wants to, when the premonition of accuracy runs down his spine like cold water just in advance of a new, untested idea.

He doesn’t try it for a moment. He’s too busy pushing away the idea, convincing himself he can’t  _possibly_  be right in this even as every part of his body is completely certain that he is. Then he hisses “There’s no way” and taps “hayato” into the field with more force than is strictly necessary.

The screen blinks green, the black giving way to an array of pictures.

For a moment Gokudera can’t even appreciate his victory. He’s too busy pressing a hand to his face and hissing “That  _idiot_ ” in a tone that falls so short of irritation it doesn’t even convince himself. He’s still flushed when he reaches to click on the first picture. At least there’s no one else to see the blush he can’t quite push away, the self-conscious almost-pleasure and almost-embarrassment that Yamamoto apparently can evoke without even being in the room.

He gives up on composure entirely once he starts going through the photos. There’s no way he can fight away the crimson that spreads across his face, the sharp burn of embarrassment as he clicks through the shots faster and faster as he goes. There’s significantly more than three; dozens, in fact, photo after photo after photo and all of him, blurry and out-of-focus and hazy with light. Some are too close, just the blur of silver hair to tell who is in the foreground of the shot; Gokudera can’t even tell what face he’s making for the lack of focus. Others are rushed, quick snaps that caught him mid-turn or looking at someone else off-screen, or poorly framed, just the glint of rings at his fingers or a stripe of pale skin shown by an off-center collar. There are others, too, even more embarrassing: the line of Gokudera’s back as he lies on his stomach across Yamamoto’s bed, or the shape of relaxation at his mouth and the unconscious angle of his wrist as he sleeps. There’s only a few that show anything beyond shoulders and wrists, but the angle of the shots makes it clear that they’re taken from the other side of the same bed, gives the pictures an intimacy they otherwise lack.

“Jesus,” Gokudera mumbles as the pictures continue on, the sheer quantity speaking more to Yamamoto’s dedication than anything else. He’s not even sure if the other was trying to do anything in particular, can’t understand why he saved so many pictures when the vast majority are of such low quality. It would be easy to dismiss it as laziness, a lack of attention or maybe forgetfulness, but Gokudera can’t make himself believe that, at least not enough to put the phone down. So he keeps going, hoping desperately for some sort of insight into what it is Yamamoto is looking for with all these.

He’s nearly at the end when he finds it.

The photo stands out from the others, such a dramatic difference from the blurry candids Gokudera pauses just out of shock initially. The lighting is kind in this one, an ambient glow that must have been early morning, with the sun high enough to offer illumination without the glare of dawn or midday. It’s framed perfectly, too, the camera steady and unblurred with the subject dead center in the shot. And then there’s the subject itself. If Gokudera hadn’t been looking through all the preceding shots, he wouldn’t believe that he’s looking at himself, although the green eyes and silver hair make it undeniable. It’s just that he doesn’t recognize the expression he’s making, doesn’t remember Yamamoto taking a picture of him like this at all. But the green eyes are staring straight at the camera, intent like they haven’t been in any of the other shots, the smile softer and warmer than Gokudera has ever seen on his own face. There is a prickle of recognition, disconnected from its source -- he  _knows_  that smile, it’s so familiar he can’t even place it in this moment -- but he didn’t know he had ever looked like this, pleased and content and  _happy_ , like he’s right where he wants to be in the world.

It’s unsettling, to see that expression on his own features. Gokudera’s heart is pounding, his stomach feels like it’s in free-fall, and for a brief moment of vertigo he can understand what it is Yamamoto means when he says he’s beautiful.

It’s too much to bear for long. Gokudera feels displaced, off-balance in his own skin, and even when he shuts the phone and pushes it away he can’t shake the discomfort for a few minutes. He ends up back in Yamamoto’s bed, pressing his face against the familiar soft of the other boy’s pillow while he puts all his attention to regaining some measure of composure while he waits for the other to get back.

He’s only partially succeeded by the time Yamamoto comes back in. He still feels skittish, his skin prickling with electricity and apparently so visibly tense that Yamamoto pauses in the doorway, his forehead creasing into concern before he asks “Gokudera?” with the carefully gentle tone of worry.

“I’m fine,” Gokudera snaps, his gaze sliding down to Yamamoto’s shoulder for the sake of avoiding his eyes. “Just get over here, okay?”

Yamamoto obeys without asking for confirmation, crosses the room and drops to sit so close his knee bumps Gokudera’s. Gokudera huffs, scoots himself closer so he’s pressing in against Yamamoto’s leg, and Yamamoto laughs before he reaches up to touch Gokudera’s hair. His fingers are warm, gentle against the edge of Gokudera’s ear, and the contact drags Gokudera’s gaze back up to his features, reflex too strong for even awkwardness to overcome.

Yamamoto is smiling, his eyes drifting across Gokudera’s features with the faintly awed amazement he sometimes has, like he’s never seen the other before. His eyes are soft, warmed with the affection that usually makes Gokudera weirdly guilty, like he’s receiving something he doesn’t deserve, but for once Gokudera doesn’t think about that. He’s caught in the shape of Yamamoto’s smile, warm and gentle and utterly content, like he’s precisely where he wants to be.

Yamamoto doesn’t ask what’s wrong when Gokudera takes a sharp breath of recognition and leans in to kiss him without offering any warning or explanation. He just melts into him, always ready to accept whatever Gokudera wants to give him, and in this moment Gokudera is willing to admit that that is the best support he could offer.


End file.
